You are flowing trough my veins (I'm addicted to you)
by ibuzoo
Summary: He wonders why so many people measure their love in heartbeats because the sentiment may be nice but terribly impractical - heartbeats can race, heartbeats can slow, heartbeats can end. It's the adrenaline that keeps the paces changing and he prohibits himself to think that it's something as foolish as love.


**You are flowing through my veins (I'm addicted to you)**

**Prompt:** Love

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** College AU / Modern AU / Poetry

**Word count: **1198

**A/N: **The poem I used is 'What it is' from Erich Fried because it is one of my favourite german poems out there (and there aren't a lot tbh). There are a lot of different english versions for this because the translation sometimes changes so I tried to use the one that is the most similar to the german original.

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><p><strong>o.<strong>

He feels it the first time she sits beside him when her knee brushes past his leg and his fingers rub soothing circles over her pulse on her wrist. They're sitting on his dark chestnut leather couch and his head is spinning with a dozen different ideas for his business, plans for world domination edging at the back of his mind when she states, casually and almost bored without glancing up from her medical textbook that lies in the crease where her legs meet, cover the bare legs that show under her short myrtle green skirt, "You should send Rabastan for the next deal, he's far more enterprising than Rodolphus."

It's a flicker of something foreign, something pleasant and balmy that soaks his stomach and he feels like throwing up but wants to ravish her lips at the same time and it's utterly shattering how his emotions toss and turn the moment he realises that she cares about his future plans - but his mind stops racing, reminds him that he's clever, that he's rational, mental sane so he addresses himself back to his papers, stays silent.

_(it is nonsense, says reason)_

* * *

><p><strong>i.<strong>

He doesn't say I love you because it's never quite enough, it's a two-dimensional expression of feelings, a circuit layout and Tom charts emotions, graphs experiences, traces lines and connects the dots of why he feels the way he does.

When they lie in bed together at night, her head on his chest while her hair tickles his chin, he can feel her heartbeat racing against his own, fast and steady and he wonders why so many people measure their love in heartbeats because the sentiment may be nice but terribly impractical - heartbeats can race, heartbeats can slow, heartbeats can end.

It's the adrenaline that keeps the paces changing and he prohibits himself to think that it's something as foolish as love.

_(it is a calamity, says calculation)_

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

Abraxas drags Draco along for their next meeting and he watches how Hermione twirls a strand of stray hair around her finger, drags her upper row of white perfect teeth over her shining pink lips and he observes the way they shape around the words that leave her mouth, voice low and seductive, almost playful.

Draco's eyes are darker than usual, pupils dilated, his smirk sharper as a razor and Tom observes the muscles in his neck tensing up as well as his slender fingers that grasp around Hermione's waist, flirtatious, predatory and something mixes in Tom's veins, something fatal and treacherous, something that makes his blood coil and pumping, something that waits to lash out.

There's a pang in his system that contracts his lungs, burns through in the depth of his stomach but he pushes it aside and wonders if Draco will still smirk once he breaks his teeth one by one.

_(it is nothing but pain, says fear)_

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><p><strong>iii.<strong>

They're both still in his bedroom while his followers are waiting in the dining room, all of them prepared to take over the world and he buttons his oxford up, brushes imaginary dust off his collar and his shoulders when he catches a glimpse of her naked thighs in the mirror, a ludic gleam out of dark hazel eyes.

He turns around slowly, carefully because he already knows how this ends, this game of wanting and giving and once their eyes lock she pushes the thin cotton-covered blanket off her body, writhes in his hunter green satin sheets while her skin is ablaze with different kinds of lights, sun rays that break through the surface of his window and cast a hundred kaleidoscopic colours on her naked frame.

He knows he should go, knows that the meeting is important for their future - for his future.

He unbuttons his shirt and steps closer to the bed.

_(it is hopeless, says insight)_

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><p><strong>iv.<strong>

He catches the glimpse of her reflection in the glass of the front door and when he enters the library she packs already a pile of books carefully away in her leather satchel, turns around to greet him with a short peck on his cheek. Ron's eyes darken with reluctance, almost repulsion while Harry has the cowardice to look away but Tom doesn't care, takes the bag out of Hermione's hands and shoulders it himself, his eyes piercing like granular ice.

He waits until she gives her goodbyes while he wastes the fragment of a second to argue with himself if he should or should not send Greyback for a little talk to the ginger and the Potter-boy, but he discards the thought a second later and leads her out without another glance back.

_(it is ridiculous, says pride)_

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><p><strong>v.<strong>

"This - whatever it may be between us - ruins us, slowly, lethal and I'm not willing to-", he breaks off mid-sentence while the anger he felt a second before fades like nicotine smoke in thin air and he stops, watches amazed how she slips into one of his button-downs with ease and the linen fabric lays down on her skin like it belongs to her - like she belongs to him.

Her sweet cherry scent mixes with the sharp spices of his aftershave, swirls around her with every step she takes in his direction and it tingles in his nose, brushes the inside of his nostrils until it burns down his throat and clings to the pores and wrinkles on his insides.

He forgets everything else.

_(it is foolish, says caution)_

* * *

><p><strong>vi.<strong>

His breath freezes as soon as it leaves his lips and he watches white puffy snowflakes that linger in the air, sway back and forth in the cold December sky while Hermione's hands are entwined with his own, inseparable, one.

Her cheeks are flushed with a warm raspberry tone and he observes the way the snow catches in long dark eyelashes, how it gives her an almost serene look, a mask she wears like himself and he raises his hands to take her face with precise lightness, pushes her chin up so her nose brushes his when he leans down to kiss her frozen, chapped lips.

He doesn't want this to end. Never.

_(it is impossible, says experience)_

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><p><strong>vii.<strong>

They lie together in tangled sheets, bodies naked and sweat-covered when they whisper in private, murmur little secrets between saliva-wet lips and her voice is unnaturally loud in the thick silence of the room, echoes in the back of his mind when she asks, "What is this between us?"

His throat dries out instantly and he feels like on the verge of collapse, like falling with arms open wide and it's a horrible, indescribable, gut-wrenching feeling as if someone cuts out his entrails because he knows what this is between them, knows that it's far too much and not nearly enough but he can't let the words fall from his lips, can't accept the circumstances of their situation so he answers, open, reassuring, "It is what it is."

It's all he needs to say because she hums in agreement, raises her head and kisses his perfect shining lips.

_(It is what it is, says love)_


End file.
